


Blackthorn Tree

by sangha



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky uses the word sweetheart entirely too often, Christmas, Depression, Established Relationship, Letters, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reunion, Reunion Sex, Self-Hatred, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Top Bucky Barnes, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 04:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17093885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangha/pseuds/sangha
Summary: He punches the outer wall of the dilapidated apartment he's squatting in until his knuckles bleed, something he hasn’t seen in a long time. As he looks at the raw, broken skin, he remembers the calloused hands that used to dress his wounds, rough and dragging on his skin despite the delicate bones of the fingers that cared for him.The memories of Steve taste like copper, the feeling of skinned knees and scraped knuckles coming back to him at the same time that he recalls sad blue eyes and a drop of blood falling from full red lips.There's nothing he wouldn't do for Steve and yet, he's been avoiding him for well over half a year now.---Or: Bucky tries to stay away from Steve and protect him all at the same time. Steve won't let Bucky get away that easily.





	Blackthorn Tree

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write some Christmas fluff, but somehow we ended up with 5.5k of visceral violence and reunion sex. Oops. 
> 
> So, just a heads up: while there is no active fighting going on in this fic, Bucky remembers certain details that are quite graphic and visceral throughout the fic. 
> 
> The title is a reference to this part in Hozier's NFWMB:  
>  _If I was born as a blackthorn tree/ I'd wanna be felled by you / held by you / fuel the pyre of your enemies_

The thread of a life can reveal itself through violence, its connective tissue drawn in blood. It starts when Bucky gets into fights on a schoolyard to protect the small boy who doesn’t know when to run away. The boy tells him, “I don’t need your help,” even as he’s lying there, face bruised and bleeding. “Don’t be silly,” Bucky says, reaching out a hand to the boy. When the boy introduces himself, the name lodges itself in his bones. Steve. He won’t forget this name as long as he lives.

Or maybe it started even before that, when Bucky’s pops would get drunk, his temper unpredictable and quick to rise, forcing Bucky to learn how to dodge a fist long before he steps in to protect Steve from bullies.

They get into scrapes so regularly, nobody looks at them funny anymore when they show up with a split lip or a black eye. They are inseparable. Steve and Bucky, always said in the same breath, as if they’ve become one through the blood they’ve shed together.

There's one big difference between Steve and him. Steve gets this wild look in his eyes, as though he enjoys the fight. It's not the violence that gets him going, Bucky realizes after spending years around Steve. It's the sense of justice being done, even if that justice is delivered through fists and more often than not ends with Steve having to admit defeat. It pleases Steve, excites him. 

That look was absent on the helicarrier. 

For Bucky, nothing about fighting was enjoyable. It was a necessity; to protect Steve from others, to protect himself from his father. 

Violence reshapes him. 

It breaks him down into little pieces, making him unrecognizable to himself. 

Even after the bridge, after the helicarrier, after everything, he's not sure who he is anymore.

He punches the outer wall of the dilapidated apartment he's squatting in until his knuckles bleed, something he hasn’t seen in a long time. As he looks at the raw, broken skin, he remembers the calloused hands that used to dress his wounds, rough and dragging on his skin despite the delicate bones of the fingers that cared for him.

The memories of Steve taste like copper, the feeling of skinned knees and scraped knuckles coming back to him at the same time that he recalls sad blue eyes and a drop of blood falling from full red lips.

There's nothing he wouldn't do for Steve and yet, he's been avoiding him for well over half a year now.

Avoiding him, but still keeping an eye on him. He knows how to watch without being seen. 

He learns Steve spends most of his time in a Brooklyn brownstone, the kind they dreamed of as kids but was never attainable to either of them. Steve doesn't go to DC anymore. 

Steve paints sometimes, or spends hours drawing. Bucky is relieved to see he hasn't given up on his old hobby. He has vague memories of Steve drawing him, the intensity of his gaze divided between Bucky and the paper in his lap. Bucky always felt strangely electrified and soothed under that scrutiny, like every barrier had come down between them and Bucky's soul was now fully exposed before Steve. What would Steve see if he looked at Bucky now?

He also learns Hydra isn't completely gone, its remnants out for blood. Steve doesn't realize it, but he's their biggest target. There's no need for Steve to know. 

Bucky protects him from the shadows.

Bucky tracks them down, knows how they operate, knows how to infiltrate a secure facility, how to get information. For once, he enjoys the feel of a jawbone cracking under his hands, the spray of blood as he knocks out their teeth and breaks their nose. He uses his right hand as much as he can. He wants them to know he can take them down with his own flesh and blood. 

He wants to see the bruising and the blood, the evidence of his punishment on his knuckles and painted on his clothes. He wants them to hurt. He wants. 

The memories of those other killings are intrusive, nauseating. He wakes up from nightmares, realizing it wasn't just a dream, it was an actual memory, and vomits bile on the floor beside his mattress. He hates what they made him do. 

He doesn't regret what he does to Hydra agents. He doesn't regret beating their faces to a pulp. He doesn't regret looking them in the eye as the fire in theirs goes out. He doesn't regret making them say his name before he kills them. James Buchanan Barnes. They will know the name of the man who kills them. 

Every time he leaves a body behind in a pool of blood, a folder detailing all of their crimes next to their body, he feels farther removed from Steve. He's protecting Steve, but he's giving up his humanity to do so. At least when he was working for Hydra, he didn't know what he was doing. He doesn't have that excuse anymore. He knows what he's doing. He knows he can never go back to Steve. 

He still keeps an eye on him. 

The redheaded woman and black man who were with Steve on the bridge visit him at his brownstone sometimes. There's a strange feeling of bile in his gut when he sees them laughing together. It's a good thing Steve has friends, he tells himself. They're good people, he tells himself. Unlike Bucky. 

The weather is starting to turn colder and colder. It can't affect Bucky physically anymore, but he feels a strong aversion to the cold nonetheless. It doesn't stop him from checking in on Steve regularly, sitting on a roof across the street in the dark. He's noticed that Steve's pencils stay in their cases, his paint brushes having gone untouched for several months now. 

Steve sits in a chair in his living room sometimes and stares blankly ahead for hours. Other times he'll pull out all of his strength on a punching bag, until the bag breaks and his hands are bleeding. He doesn't usually bother with cleaning the wounds, instead waiting for them to heal on their own. It's painfully familiar to Bucky. He knows why he does it to himself, but he can't fathom why Steve would do this. He's not like Bucky. Despite that spark in his eye when he fights, he doesn't like to kill. Steve has morals. 

As the days grow shorter, Steve seems to grow more morose. Despite the insistent cold Bucky spends an increasing amount of time checking on Steve. His friends come to the door, but Steve turns them away most of the time. 

Christmas decorations start to go up around the neighborhood and as Bucky is watching a little girl and her father decorate a tree, he's suddenly hit with a memory. 

Steve and Bucky never had much money for Christmas decorations, let alone for gifts. With Steve's allergies, a tree was always out of the question. When they moved into their shoddy apartment together, the winter after Sarah died, they got into a fight a few weeks before Christmas. Bucky just wanted to do something nice for Steve, get him something for Christmas to cheer him up, but Steve wouldn't have it.

“You already spend too much money on me, I can't even pay for my half of the rent half the time. You're not spending another dime on me,” Steve had said, stubborn as usual. 

Bucky let it go when he realized he was more likely to sprout a tail than convince Steve. But he wasn't going to let Steve go through Christmas without anything at all. So he began writing little notes, one every day leading up to Christmas, leaving them in places Steve was sure to find them. Some were short, just one sentence, others were actual letters. All of them were deeply personal. 

Bucky turns his gaze back to Steve, sitting alone in his apartment. Maybe there is something he can do.

The next day, when Steve leaves his house to buy some groceries, Bucky seizes the opportunity. He used to be so good with words, but he's not so good at expressing himself anymore. _**Go see your friends** ,_ he writes. _**You deserve to feel better.** _It's blunt and to the point, but it'll do. He leaves the note on the coffee table, right in front of Steve's favorite chair.

He watches Steve come home and find the note. He looks around, as if Bucky would still be hiding in the house, and when he finds nothing, he looks out the window, but Bucky is sheltered by the dwindling daylight. Steve turns and scribbles something on the back of the note, leaving it in the exact place where Bucky left it. 

_If this is a joke, I will find you and I will fucking kill you._

Bucky smiles to himself as he reads the note the following day. Still as easily fired up as he used to be. 

_**Don't be dramatic. Why don't you draw something today? You used to do it all the time.** _

Steve's back is to the window as he reads the note, shoulders slumped, but then he straightens his spine and collects his pencils and paper. He sits at his desk in one of the upstairs bedrooms for a long while and eventually holds up the finished drawing to the window with a mulish look on his face, apparently confident Bucky will be able to see it. Bucky is staring at a drawing of his own face. 

_You're not here,_ the back of his note reads when he collects it the next day.

There's not much he can say to that. He can't come back. He'll use his corrupted soul to protect Steve for as long as he can, but he can't come back to Steve. 

_**Remember Mrs. Byrne? She'd always save some of the Christmas dinner she cooked for us, so we wouldn't go hungry on Christmas like the poor bastards we were. The only time you couldn't ever get in a fight was right after one of those meals, you were too sated and full. You should eat more, now that you can.** _

Steve wipes at his eyes after reading the note and sits in his chair. He stares at the piece of paper, pen in hand, for a long time.

_Do you remember everything?_

The question reeks of hope. The truth is, he doesn't. Most of his memories are brief flashes and they blend together. Blood is blood is blood after a while. He remembers what it sounds like when you stab someone from behind, drawing all the air out of their lungs. He remembers the sound of a skull cracking under metal. The sight of brain tissue sprayed across a wall. The sound of a bone saw, so close to his ear. The cold enveloping his lungs. Impressions, rather than memories.

Steve is the only narrative thread of his life. The only thing that unites his former and current self. 

_**I remember you. You were my anchor**._

The answer this time isn't a written response. It's him and Steve, smiling, the way they looked before the war, Steve skinny and short, a twinkle in Bucky's eyes, his arm slung casually around Steve, Steve's face buried in Bucky's shoulder. The drawing is so life-like, despite being in charcoal, that Bucky can't help but stare at it for minutes on end. He carefully folds the piece of paper and puts it in his jacket pocket. 

**_I always loved seeing you smile. It felt like victory_ ** _._

He dreams of Steve that night, the way he felt in Bucky's arms at night. He wakes up, swearing he can still feel the weight of Steve.

_I miss you._

He must be out of his mind to continue this, but he can't help himself. He doesn't hate himself when he's writing these notes. For a moment each day, he gets to be the old Bucky, the one who didn't know what it feels like to snuff out another person's life. 

_**You should really go out and see your friends.** _

It's a cop out and he knows it. Steve agrees.

 _Fuck you, Barnes,_ his reply reads. But the next time the black man visits him, he doesn't turn him away. 

_**Language, Captain,**_ Bucky writes, a callback to an old shared joke of theirs. ~~_**I loved that your filthy mouth was always mine alone.**_~~

_Still yours._

Bucky stares at the piece of paper, sitting on his ratty couch. Against his better judgement, he begins writing a response. 

_**Remember our first kiss? ~~Course you do, I'm the one with the shitty memory.~~ I thought for sure I was gonna die, I was so nervous. Cause of death: Steve Rogers. It wasn't even a special occasion. No dates for us. You just looked at me with those big blue eyes, split lip dripping blood onto your chin. You were still spitting mad over one thing or another, don't suppose it matters now. You looked so beautiful, even beat up like that. I was trying to clean your scraped knees, but I kept getting distracted, kept stealing glances at your face. You frowned, with that pissy look you get, and said, “What?” And there were no words that were ever going to explain, so I looked at you, and leaned in slowly, and you didn't stop me. I knew even then that you were better than me. ** _

Steve reads the note, his shoulders hunched over the kitchen counter, hands balled into fists. He stands motionless for a short while, then goes upstairs to vent his frustration on a punching bag. 

_Don't say that. Don't you dare say that. You were always the best part of me._

_Please just come home._

He doesn't go back to Steve's for the rest of the week. This whole thing was a mistake. He should have left Steve alone, he should have moved to another country, should have trusted that Steve could take care of himself now. 

He packs his few belongings, planning to get out of the country tomorrow. He's counting on Christmas Day to provide him with some cover. But he can't leave without one last visit. He owes Steve a goodbye, even if it can't be face to face. 

He enters the house one last time. He's surprised to see several sheets of paper scattered on the kitchen island. 

_Don't leave me again._

_I miss you so much I can't breathe with it sometimes._

_I worry about you. I hope you're safe. Please be safe._

_You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I don't care what they made you do. I don't care if you disagree with me. You are kind and generous and caring and they can't take that away from you. I won't let them. I was never better than you, Buck. I got into fights because those guys looked down on me. You were right, that night before you shipped out. I tried to enlist because I had something to prove. Everyone thinks I'm this great selfless hero. You're the only one who knows about my ego. You're the only one who knows me._

_If you don't think I'll tear up this world to find you, you got another thing coming, James Buchanan. You might be good at hiding, but I'm a stubborn asshole with superhuman stamina. You're not getting rid of me._

_I love you more than this world can contain. Just come back to me, Buck._

Bucky stands there, in Steve's kitchen, dumbfounded as he reads these notes. His brain yells at him to leave, that Steve could be back any minute, that this changes nothing. His feet are rooted to the spot. He knows he should move, but he doesn't want to. He wants to stay more than he's wanted anything in his life. He wants to see Steve's face up close, hold him, touch him. 

He hears the key in the lock, the door opening. He has about fifteen seconds before Steve spots him. Ten. Five. 

Steve drops his keys to the floor, the loud clink echoing through the otherwise quiet apartment.

They stare at each other. Steve makes as if to move forward and changes his mind, over and over again. “Bucky?” he says eventually, cautious and hesitant, nothing like the shocked and horrified way he said it on the bridge all those months ago. 

Bucky shakes his head. “I can't stay. This was a mistake.”

Steve is finally spurred into action. “Hey, no, no, let's just talk. Just talk, alright?” There's a desperate edge to his voice. He's closer to Bucky now, though there's still more than an arm's length between them. “Where else are you gonna spend your Christmas Eve?”

“I don't know what to talk about.” Bucky isn't looking at Steve, instead focusing on the papers on the kitchen island.

“I can do the talking,” Steve offers.

Bucky shakes his head. “I know what you're gonna say,” he says, nodding towards the handwritten notes. 

“Why can't you stay?” Steve asks, still keeping his distance but looking poised to run should Bucky make a break for it.

“You know why.”

“I really don't.”

“I'm not the man I used to be,” Bucky says, annoyed at Steve's feigned ignorance. 

“Neither am I,” Steve interrupts. 

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” Bucky sighs, steeling himself. “You ever kill a child, Steve? Unarmed civilians?” he asks, voice harsh. 

Steve flinches. “That wasn't you.”

Bucky huffs. “Alright, how about this one, then? I've killed at least two dozen Hydra operatives since last April. I beat their faces in so badly their own mothers wouldn't recognize them and I didn't even have to use my metal arm to do it.”

A muscle in Steve's jaw ticks. 

Bucky goes in for the kill. “I liked killing them.”

Steve visibly swallows. “And that's why you can't come home to me?”

“Jesus Christ, Steve, yes.” Bucky barely resists rolling his eyes.

“Okay, let me ask you this,” Steve begins. “Would you kill just anyone, any random person on the street?”

“No.” Bucky clenches and unclenches his jaw.

“So why these people?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Because they were gonna hurt you. And because they're pieces of shit.”

“You really think we didn't suspect it was you, especially when you started leaving those files next to their bodies? I know everything you've done, Buck. It doesn't change a thing.” Steve steps closer. “You’re right about one thing: the killing has to stop. You're more than what they turned you into, Buck.”

“How do you know that?” he asks, vulnerable and uncertain.

Steve steps even closer. “Because I know you. Because you kept tabs on me. Because you wanted to protect me. Because I read the things you wrote to me.” He's within touching distance now. Bucky's breath hitches. Steve's hand comes up to caress Bucky's cheek, Steve's face so open and vulnerable. 

“Steve.” Bucky says his name like a prayer. 

“I can't believe you're here,” Steve says, soft and reverent. His hand has moved on to Bucky's hair, tucking stray strands behind his ear. “Can I hug you?” he asks. Bucky nods and he expects to be swept up in a bear hug, but instead, Steve moves slow and deliberate, like Bucky is a wild animal. Well, he's not wrong. His arms come to rest on Bucky's shoulder blades, his face buried in Bucky's neck. Bucky's arms curl around Steve's waist, muscle memory taking over. 

Steve is so warm, Bucky forgot about that. 

They stay like that, so immersed in each other, Bucky forgets where he is for a little while. The chiming of a church clock in the distance brings him back. 

He forgot how nice it feels to hug someone, to hug Steve. And to think he was going to run from this. 

Steve lifts his head and looks at Bucky. 

“What?” Bucky asks. 

Steve smiles at him and Bucky knows what's coming. There's a heavy feeling in his gut, nerves and excitement and anticipation all rolled into one. Steve's lips press against his and he releases a soft sigh against Bucky's lips. They've been apart for seventy years but this is such an ingrained part of them, those years don't matter in this moment. All that matters is Steve's mouth on his, Steve's teeth softly biting at his lips, Steve's tongue soothing those bites. 

It's not until Steve stops kissing him and takes him by the hand to pull him towards the couch that he resists again. 

“What's wrong?” Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head. “I can't. I shouldn't.” 

Steve moves closer again. “We don't have to kiss. We don't even have to talk. Please, just don't make me spend Christmas alone.”

It's a low blow and they both know it. Bucky lets his head fall onto Steve's shoulder, Steve's hand rubbing his back. “I'm afraid I'll never want to leave again if I stay.”

Steve freezes. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“You deserve better.” He stays put, in Steve's arms, like the traitor he is.

“I don't know how many ways I have to say this to you. You're it for me. There's not going to be anybody else, and you are good, and if you don't want to believe that, then at least believe that I don't want 'better’. I just want you.” Steve's voice hitches, but doesn't quite break. Bucky can feel the tremors in his chest. 

When he looks up, there are tear tracks on Steve's face. He leans in and kisses his cheeks, licking away the salt. “I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” His voice is raw, cracked open.

“I know, Buck. It's okay.” Steve's hand has continued rubbing his back.

Bucky kisses him, desperate and hungry, his hands on Steve's back, bunching the fabric of his sweater. Steve responds by deliberately slowing his movements, making Bucky follow. 

“Can we take our time tonight? I want to remember everything,” Steve says. He doesn't add “in case you leave again,” but Bucky hears it anyway. “C'mon,” he says, leading Bucky to the couch. Steve sits down first, pulling Bucky into his lap. He tucks a few strands of Bucky's hair behind his ears again. “You're so beautiful, Bucky.” 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“You are.” Steve leans in to kiss down the line of Bucky's neck. “You always have been. Most beautiful boy in Brooklyn. Such a heartbreaker. But you were mine.” 

Bucky lets out a soft sigh as Steve devotes more attention to his neck. “You haven't seen all of me yet,” Bucky says quietly. 

Steve pulls back. “Will you show me?” he asks, his hands at the hem of Bucky's henley. 

Bucky nods and Steve slowly pulls off his shirt, giving Bucky plenty of time to stop him if he changes his mind. The scarring is hideous, he knows this. It's raw and red and looks fresh, even though the arm was attached nearly seventy years ago. 

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks.

“The scars are mostly numb. Sometimes I get a muscle ache from the weight of the arm, but that's about it.” It's an understatement, but he's not here for Steve's pity. 

“Hey,” Steve says. “You're beautiful.” 

Bucky scoffs, but Steve's fingers are already trailing down his torso, and he doesn't really care anymore if Steve is straight up lying to him. He tugs at Steve's sweater and quickly removes it. He kisses Steve, letting his hands roam over Steve's chest. They're still going slow but Bucky can feel heat building in his groin. He rolls his hips down to release some pressure and draws a moan from Steve's mouth. 

Without warning, Steve stands up, lifting Bucky up with him and starts walking towards the stairs. 

“I can walk, you know,” Bucky mutters. 

Steve shuts him up with a quick kiss, before going upstairs and into the bedroom. He lays Bucky out on the bed and climbs on top of him. They're touching from head to toe now, and god, Bucky didn't realize how much he missed this. 

Steve looks at him with so much adoration in his eyes, it's almost too much to handle. 

They're still going at a snail's pace, kissing unhurriedly, though they do manage to at least get their jeans out of the way. 

“I've missed you so much,” Steve says, resting his head on Bucky's shoulder, his legs in between Bucky's. “When I woke up from the ice, the world had moved on. You'd been gone for almost seventy years, but for me, it was just a matter of days. There was no room for grief anymore, no time. You were a distant memory. When you came back, all those feelings I put in the back of my mind couldn't stay buried anymore. Before, I thought maybe I could live without you. But when I saw you, I knew that was bullshit.”

There is no way he deserves this level of love from Steve. And yet, he can't make himself leave. It's at once distressing and soothing to know someone can still love him this much. “You can't keep chasing after a ghost,” Bucky says finally. It hurts to think of Steve living in a haze in his absence, when he has so much going for him. 

Steve lifts his head, traces his hands over Bucky's body. “You're not a ghost. You're right here, in Brooklyn, with me.” Steve kisses him, softly at first, but becoming more insistent, his hips rolling against Bucky's languidly. “I want you,” he says, punctuating his words with another roll of his hips. “I want you.”

Bucky takes Steve's face in his hands, looks him in the eyes. He was never good at denying Steve anything. Maybe it's less selfish of him to stay if he can convince himself he's doing it for Steve. “What do you want? Tell me, sweetheart.”

Steve whimpers, a soft sound that doesn't belong to a man of his size, of his stature. “I want to feel you. Everywhere.” He maintains eye contact, but a blush spreads from his cheeks down to his neck. 

Bucky traces it with his fingers. He can't believe how he could have ever forgotten the exact shade of red that so easily colors Steve's skin. He traces his hand lower, down into the waistband of Steve's boxer briefs. Another soft whimper. He cups Steve's ass for a moment, then his fingers are searching for that tight ring of muscle. “This what you want?”

Steve nods, buries his head in Bucky's shoulder again. Without lifting his head, his arm reaches for the bedside table drawer and pulls out a bottle of lube. 

Bucky removes Steve's underwear and it's a little awkward with the way Steve refuses to get up, but they manage. He takes his time to open Steve up. He hasn't done this since before they turned him into this monster, but he remembers how much he enjoyed doing this for Steve, the intimacy of the act, Steve's body incapable of hiding secrets beneath his hands. There's a power to knowing he's still capable of this, of being gentle with another body, with another soul. 

“I love you,” he whispers against Steve's lips. 

Steve kisses him, then pulls back slightly. “I love you.” 

This is enough for him, touching head to toe, Steve proving his trust in Bucky by letting him touch everywhere. Steve is hard, rutting against him, pushing back on his fingers. He rubs more insistently, with three fingers now, finding that spot that makes Steve moan brokenly over and over again. 

“Bucky,” Steve says brokenly. “I wanna feel _you_.”

Bucky cards his other hand through Steve's hair. “How do you want it?” 

The flush on his cheeks and neck deepens again. “Do you remember that time I asked for something and you wouldn't do it because of my asthma?”

Bucky frowns, trying to conjure up the memory Steve is talking about. It comes back to him all of a sudden. Steve had wanted to lie on his front, Bucky on top of him, covering him from head to toe. Bucky hadn't wanted to do it, afraid he would crush Steve with his weight or restrict his airflow. Steve had yelled at Bucky that he wasn't that fragile, and Bucky had slept on the couch for a couple of nights. 

“I remember you getting all pissy,” he says, smiling. 

Steve smiles back at him. “You're not gonna crush me this time.” 

“Alright, sweetheart, let's turn over then,” Bucky says. 

Steve moves off him, lies face down on the bed. Bucky finally removes his own boxers, only now starting to take note of how much he wants this. He was so focused on Steve, he didn't care much about his own arousal. But seeing Steve spread out in front of him, waiting for Bucky to lie down on top of him, sliding home, he's hit with a burst of desire thrumming in his veins. 

He pushes Steve's legs apart slightly, his own legs bracketing Steve's, still sitting up. He lines up against Steve's hole and pushes in slowly, giving Steve time to adjust. He doesn't know how long it's been for Steve. He can't even remember the last time they did this, their time spent in the war bleeding together in his mind, the memories foggy. He forgot how good it feels, to feel someone open up around you. 

Once he's bottomed out, he lies down on top of Steve, his front to Steve's back. “You good, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” Steve moans softly. “Buck, please, just move.”

Bucky rolls his hips, more of a grind than a thrust, and Steve moans louder under him. Steve has no leverage to move, Bucky's weight holding him down and his thighs restricting him. His face is turned to the side, eyes closed, mouth open and emitting soft gasps and moans intermittently. 

“You're so good,” Bucky praises him, still grinding filthy and hot inside of Steve. Steve's trust in him cracks something open inside his chest. He gets to make someone else feel good, feel pleasure. 

The red flush of Steve's skin is nothing like the shade of blood, the blue of his eyes nothing like the bruises he has left behind on the bodies that haunt him. 

He uses his thighs for leverage to finally begin thrusting for real, pushing Steve's legs closer together in the process. Steve feels small under him like this, even though he's bigger than Bucky now. 

Steve moans loudly, turning his head for a kiss. 

Bucky happily obliges him. “That feel good, sweetheart?”

“Hng, fuck, yes, Bucky,” Steve says, breathing heavy. 

Bucky fucks him slow and deep and he could keep this up forever if it means keeping Steve under him like this, tension seeped from his shoulders, that eternal frown between his brows finally gone, saying Bucky's name over and over, not in fear, but as if it's precious to him. As if Bucky could be something precious. 

Steve begins squirming underneath him, trying to push back even though he has no purchase. “I got you, honey,” Bucky whispers in his ear, and starts to speed up as much as he can in this position. 

Steve's hand reaches back for Bucky, landing on his ass, spurring him on. “So close, Buck, just like that, fuck, keep going, please don't stop,” he mutters, his words partially muffled by the pillow. 

Bucky can feel his own orgasm building, but he wants to hold off until Steve has come. “C'mon baby, I know you can do it, wanna see you come,” Bucky tells him, angling his hips as best he can to rub against Steve's prostate. 

Steve's other hand is bunching the sheets so hard Bucky thinks he might tear them up any second. He doesn't give a good goddamn. The sounds coming out of Steve's mouth are high-pitched and bordering on desperate by now and Bucky knows he's almost there. Steve tenses and clenches around Bucky, letting out a long and loud moan, rutting against the sheets as much as he can to increase the friction on his cock. 

Bucky finally chases his own pleasure and thrusts a few more times, hard and fast, before he's coming inside of Steve and slumping on top of him. 

They lie like that for a while before Steve starts getting antsy. “Buck, c'mon you big lug, get off me,” Steve whines. 

Bucky laughs, the sound unfamiliar even to his own ears, and rolls off Steve. 

Outside, the distant church bells chime midnight. 

Steve rolls into his side, propped up on his elbow and leans down to kiss Bucky, soft and sweet and like they've got all the time in the world.

“Merry Christmas, Buck.”

Bucky caresses Steve's cheek. He looks content and happy, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Bucky kisses him again, knowing he'd do anything to see that look on Steve's face. “Merry Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> The first person to spot the Sufjan Stevens reference gets a cookie. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. As always, kudos and comments are my life's blood.
> 
> Merry Christmas, you filthy animals! <3


End file.
